Gilla caught herself before she reached for her sword. The Storyteller’s green eyes were hard as he stared at her.

“Kissed,” she said carefully. “Putting your lips on another’s. You know?” She held the gold coin where he could see it and remember that she held his token.

“I know ‘kiss,’ ” Ezren snapped at her. “When is this supposed to have happened?”

He turned his head, his body stiff in the saddle.

“After you killed the warrior-priest.” Gilla urged her horse closer to his. “You collapsed. Elder Thea Haya moved to kill you—”

The Storyteller stopped his horse, staring straight ahead.

“Bethral met her blade,” Gilla continued. “Then Haya backed away. Bethral threw herself down on the ground next to you. She looked frantic. Then she—her face filled with joy, and she kissed you.”

The Storyteller was still and silent.

“I’ve never seen a kiss like that,” Gilla said carefully. “I just . . .” Her voice trailed off as she struggled for the right words. “I want something like that, Storyteller. And for the two of you to have it and not share . . .” She drew a breath. “I do not understand.”

“Neither do I,” the Storyteller said. “But I intend to.”

Thick alders surrounded a small pond, and had spread out around it and up a small rise. Their tents would be well hidden. They’d scattered them in the deep brush, and placed the fire at the pond’s edge, where it was rocky.

El had a real gift for setting up the tents, and Bethral had taken the time to watch how he combined two for Lander and Ouse. He also showed her how to set each one so the rain would not seep into the edges.

Bethral looked around the heavy thicket. “I want to make sure that the tents are fairly close together. If there is a disturbance in the night, I don’t want our people thrashing about in these branches by themselves.”

El nodded. “In the rains, it’s normal to double up. Would you like me to combine the tents for you and the Storyteller?”

Bethral gave him a sharp look. El’s face was bland and inquiring, but she was almost certain there was mirth lurking just below the surface. She shook her head. “No. Just put his close to mine.”

“As you wish,” El said.

Bethral left him to his chore, shaking her head. It had been an odd day. The Storyteller had been so distracted, she’d finally had to take the reins of his horse. She’d never seen him so absentminded.

The herd had stirred the pond up, so they’d taken their drinking water from the stream that fed it. Lander and Chell had set their snares, but no luck so far. They still had a haunch of red deer meat from the previous hunt, and the ever-present gurt, of course. They’d eat tonight.

She’d worry about tomorrow in the morning.

As the sun was setting, she walked down to the fire, where all the others had gathered. It would be a dark night, with thick clouds overhead. No moon, no stars, and a heavy rain on the way.

“No watches tonight,” Bethral said as she neared the fire. “I think we are safe enough.”

Tenna was grinding kavage beans with two rocks. She looked up at the clouds. “It will be an hour or two before the rain,” she pointed out. “I don’t mind watching until it really starts to pour.”

“I’ll stand with you,” Arbon said.

Ezren yawned, and stretched. “No stories tonight. I want food, and the shelter of my tent.”

Cosana looked disappointed, but Gilla nudged her hard.

Lander came up with a handful of long white roots. “There are boar tracks by the pond.”

All the Plains warriors lifted their heads. “A sow?” Gilla asked eagerly.

Lander smiled and nodded. “At least four young ones with her.”

“Oh, now, suckling boar would taste wonderful.” Chell cast eager eyes at Bethral. “If the weather is bad enough, could we delay here? Maybe hunt?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Bethral said. “Let’s see what the morning brings.”

Yawning, she stood before her tent and went through the business of removing her plate armor, slowly releasing all of the belts and straps. She didn’t even notice the weight when it was on, but the task of getting in and out of it took some time. As did packing it in the saddlebags and wrapping them in a cloak. They’d stay as dry as they might there; she wasn’t going to put them in her tent with her.

Bethral crawled into the tent and stripped off the gambeson, folding it and putting it to the side. She pulled on a tunic for sleeping.

She heard Ezren settle into his tent, and wondered if he was stripping down to skin or trous. Not that she could easily see. His tent was close, but she’d have to open her tent and look out. Not acceptable.

But in her mind’s eye . . .

The sky was grumbling with thunder as she wrapped herself in her blankets and settled down. The spicy scent of gurtle fur combined with the smell of the coming rain.

The cat had crawled in with the Storyteller, as usual. She could hear Ezren admonishing it to leave enough room for him.

Bethral lifted the edge of her tent and took a last look at the fire. Arbon and Tenna, their weapons in hand, were fading into the shadows. They had things well in hand; she could sleep.

Bethral lowered the tent edge and stretched under the blankets, then curled on her side. The blankets warmed quickly, and she was as comfortable as she could be. She took a deep breath and relaxed, waiting for sleep to claim her.

She was about to drift off when she heard her name spoken by a husky voice in a soft whisper.

“Bethral?”

She held her breath, certain she had imagined it, certain that it was part of a dream she’d soon be having. But the voice came again, soft yet clear.

“Bethral? Can you hear me?”

She lifted her head slightly. “Yes. Is there a—”

“No,” the Storyteller responded. “There is no danger. Well, yes, there is in a way, but it is not—” There was a pause, and she heard him shift in his tent. “I need you to listen to me.”

She laid her head down, and waited.

“I need to tell you something,” the compelling voice continued. “And coward that I am, I need the cover of darkness in which to say it. In the morning, the night will have flown, and we can act as if this was but a dream. But I have to speak, Lady.” Ezren Storyteller took a breath. “I am afraid.”

“Of the warrior-priests?” Bethral asked.

“No,” came the rueful response. “Of you.”

That took her aback.

“Why is it so hard to tell someone that you care for them?” Ezren said softly. “Three small words that can change lives—whole worlds, if we let them. But we hold back—for fear of rejection, for fear of hurt—or worse, for fear of the look of pity in beloved eyes. So we take no chance and do not speak, and the opportunity passes us by.”

Bethral’s heart lurched. She held her breath, listening.

“All the old tales make it sound so easy. To open your heart to someone, to expose your deepest feelings, to say ‘I love you’ and wait for a long agonizing breath for a response.”

There was a pause . . . a long pause.

Bethral’s throat went dry. “Ezren?” she whispered.

“I have reason to believe”—Ezren’s voice was strained—“that it might be possible that you would not spurn my . . . that is to say, that if I were to express . . . Damned if I can do this, even in the dark.”

Bethral heard him shift again in his tent, mere inches away. She could feel his stare through the leather.

“Lady Bethral, did you kiss me?”

Bethral went cold, then flushed hot, grateful for the darkness that surrounded them. She wanted the earth to open and let her slide into its depths, but the elements did not see fit to honor her thus. Instead, she opened her mouth and forced words past her dry lips. He deserved the truth.

“Yes.”

“When I was unconscious?” Ezren pressed. “After I killed the warrior-priest?”

“Yes.” Bethral closed her eyes and whispered the truth. “I feared you dead, and when you weren’t . . . I was so relieved . . . that I took advantage of the situation. I regret—”

“Do you?” Ezren cut her off. “Really?”

Bethral took a breath. “No. Not really.”

“Is it possible that you are just as afraid to speak as I am?” Ezren asked.

“Yes,” Bethral whispered softly.

A murmur of protest came from the darkness.

“Then Gilla told me that she saw you kiss me,” Ezren whispered. “I thought her wrong—or mistaken. But she assured me that she knew what she saw.

“So I thought about that. And then I thought about other things. About why you bought me in that slave market for a copper. About why you would nurse a dying man. About why you didn’t leave with your sword-sister when she left Edenrich. About why you took up a man cursed with wild magic and leapt through that portal.

“About how, ever since we’ve arrived here, you’ve been by my side, more than willing to do whatever it takes to get me home.”

Ezren paused to swallow hard. “So difficult,” he said. “And no way to cushion the blow if those three words are met with rejection.” He shifted so that he was facing Bethral’s tent. “And yet, if I do not speak, do not ask, I will never know.”

He waited. For a breath. And then another.

Then her voice came through the darkness, soft and low and sweet. “I can handle the pain of a blow from a sword. Or the stab of a dagger. But this . . .” Ezren heard Bethral swallow hard. He was certain that she was facing him.

Another moment, and her voice floated over again. “When I saw you there in the slaver’s market, I was angered beyond reason at anyone who would treat a human that way. I flipped that copper coin to the slaver without a second thought,” Bethral said. “But when I saw your green eyes open for just a moment, I started to wonder what secrets they held. And then, as you started to recover . . .”

Ezren waited, reminding himself to breathe.

“You bore hardships that would have destroyed many a hardened warrior who would have fought the chains until he died. But you endured, and once free, you fought to free others.” Her voice grew warmer. “Your ideas, your stories—they helped to summon an army for the Chosen, and she would never have taken the throne without your aid. Your stories . . . your mind—they amaze me.”

“I never—” Ezren shook his head. “Bethral, you are so beautiful, so strong. You are a warrior. How can you . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

“I am a warrior, trained to fight. My body is as much a tool as my sword. But tools break, Ezren. A stray arrow, a quick slash of the blade, and my eye, my limbs, my life are gone. All that I am is my body, and even if I do not lose a fight, death will claim me as surely as any other,” Bethral said quietly. “Age will claim the rest as well, given time.”

“Ah, you have me there,” Ezren said.

“But I want more than just a warm body,” Bethral added. “I want your mind and heart as well. I want . . . more than just sharing.”

Ezren sucked in a breath as his body reacted to her words.

“It pleases me that my body pleases you.” Bethral shifted again in her blankets, and Ezren wondered if she was just as affected as he was by her words. “I happen to think that you are very well made, too. Your eyes. Your hands. You have such strong hands. Thin, with long, powerful fingers. I wonder what they’d feel like on . . .” She stopped. “This isn’t a dream, is it?” Bethral asked, sounding so fearful.

“I doubt it,” Ezren said. “The cat is in here with me, and taking up half the pallet.”

Bethral chuckled.

Ezren ran his fingers through his hair, and cleared his throat. “I think it is two people, whispering in the dark, who might dare to take a chance. With their hearts.”

“Oh, please,” Bethral sighed. “Let it be so.”

“But now we must decide. Do we face our fears? Or do we dismiss this moment as a mere wisp of a dream, roll over, and let sleep take us?” Ezren waited for just a moment. “If I were to leave my tent, Bethral, and come to yours, would I be welcomed?”

“Yes.”

That was all he needed to hear.